


a wounded deer leaps highest

by scrapbullet



Series: forever is composed of nows [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual Sex, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Multi, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She is more fish than wolf," Ellaria says to Oberyn, appraising Sansa from head to toe. The calculating expression is all too similar to her Dornish lover, quick and sharp as Valyrian steel, but she takes Sansa's face in her hands nonetheless, fingers idly petting the red of her hair. "At least in looks." </p>
<p><i>"You look like your mother,"</i> is what Ellaria does not say, <i>does not need to say</i>, and Sansa feels her chest tighten from grief. </p>
<p>Ellaria smiles, then, and it warms the contours of her face. "Such loveliness is wasted on the Lannister's."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a wounded deer leaps highest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poemwithnorhyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/gifts).



Ellaria Sand is not a beautiful woman, or so the nobles in Kings Landing say. Her features are plain - paling in comparison to the great and renowned beauty that is Queen Regent Cersei, whose classically attractive countenance hides a bitter, sadistic heart - her nose a mite too large and her shoulders too broad, and yet, to Sansa Stark, Ellaria is as stunning as her Princely counterpart. Beauty, Sansa knows, comes not from the flesh they bear but from within, and in this bastard child of Dorne there is such strength and intelligence that draws the appreciation of others upon her like moths to a flame, though those eyes be covetous and uncomprehending.

(To the Lords in the Capital Ellaria is nothing; a whore who has lifted herself too high; unworthy to walk amongst them. Their greedy eyes follow her every movement, every sashay of hips and wry little smile, their desire intertwined with frank disgust. 

Ellaria does not care. Her nonchalance is noted, and only adds to their ire.)

Sansa comprehends. Her time in the Lion's den has taught her much and her eyes are open; there are many people in this world, and so few of them to call friend. As a traitor, _as a prisoner_ , there are few options to choose from. Lord Baelish, for all his veiled attempts of friendship and supposed connection to her mother, leaves a wretched feeling in Sansa's gut when he lingers too near, and Tyrion, whilst her husband by law, can give her no protection from Joffrey's cruel machinations.

Perhaps, just perhaps, if she'd been brave enough to leave with the Hound...

(Naive, Sansa is not; even when Oberyn took her hand in his in that cramped, dirty alley she was entirely aware that he could well be leading her to her demise. She is a Stark and he a Martell, and history has placed them on opposing sides, with Prince Rhaegar's infidelity with Lyanna Stark in the very center of it all. She would not blame Prince Oberyn if he still held hate for them, for the actions of a Stark led to the death of his sister and her children.

No, Sansa would not blame him at all.)

But then, sometimes one must jump in feet first, without thought or fear of drowning.

"She is more fish than wolf," Ellaria says to Oberyn, appraising Sansa from head to toe. The calculating expression is all too similar to her Dornish lover, quick and sharp as Valyrian steel, but she takes Sansa's face in her hands nonetheless, fingers idly petting the red of her hair. "At least in looks." 

_"You look like your mother,"_ is what Ellaria does not say, _does not need to say_ , and Sansa feels her chest tighten from grief. 

Ellaria smiles, then, and it warms the contours of her face. "Such loveliness is wasted on the Lannister's."

Oberyn settles into an ornately carved chair with legs unabashedly spread, the rich gold brocade of his trousers pulled taut over powerful thighs. He hums in concurrence as he draws Ellaria near, tucking her neatly onto his lap and against his chest with a sweet kiss to her proffered cheek. "The Lady Lannister has not consummated her marriage."

Ellaria blinks in surprise, gaze flicking to a now-blushing Sansa. "Oh? A noble lion... how strange."

"Indeed," Oberyn returns, and though his hands deftly slip underneath the scant folds of Ellaria's dress to palm her breasts his gaze is fixed on Sansa, heated. Silk slips away from golden skin, tender nipples peaking in the air as Oberyn rolls them with practised fingers, Ellaria shifting and arching on his lap. 

Sansa's skin feels hot. It is a heady thing, this hunger, this ache that begins low in her gut and spreads as she watches them. It is a show, of course, a test of sorts to ascertain whether she will leave or stay, and yet she finds herself rooted to the spot, not with indecision, but because she simply knows not where to start.

(She had thought, idly, days ago, whether it would be like glimpsing a Lord with a whore in one of Baelish's numerous whorehouses, but this is an intimacy that those dalliances surely lack.)

"She's so young," Ellaria only half-protests, though she speaks as if her very breath has been punched out of her, low and gasping. Straddling Oberyn's thigh she circles her hips in miniscule motions, grinding herself down onto unyielding muscle. 

A fire burns liquid heat in Sansa's loins. Decide; her mind and body scream at her.

"But beautiful," Oberyn adds, and Ellaria's lips quirk up even as his hands slip ever lower. " _If you are amenable, my love..._ "

Ellaria undulates, tipping her head back to rest on her lovers' shoulder. The sash of her dress, wrapped close around her waist falls open, baring luscious curves and the tight curls of hair between her legs. Each movement of her hips rubs the slick, pink flesh of her sex against Oberyn's leg, a low moan of exultation passing her lips; utterly wanton and fearless.

Sansa shifts, pressing her thighs together as wetness begins to gather. Their eyes meet, Ellaria and Sansa, and in but a single heartbeat a decision is made, and it changes all.

_(What is a young woman, in Kings Landing, but a piece of meat to be sold? What is virginity, when they are given away with blood and tears and duty? What is the use, then, in denying when this need is shared with not merely two, but three?)_

It is Ellaria that gives Sansa her first taste of passion, a kiss soft and wet and patient. A novice, Sansa is awkward between them, the Prince trailing his lips over the shell of her ear as, together, they strip her nude; two pairs of hands moving over her body to stroke and explore, dipping into the salt-well between Sansa's legs to make her shudder and sigh. 

The scratch of Oberyn's beard on her belly as he trails kisses lower, lower, only stokes the fire they have lit in her, and, caught between them on sheets still-warm from their bodies Sansa gives herself over, their ardour a cleansing flame from the Gods themselves.

_She has never felt more powerful._


End file.
